by Kate Ryder
Pursing his lips together, Jamie considers the options Suddenly his eyes light up. ‘Baked beans, sausages and mash!’
‘If that’s what you want, then so be it,’ says Oliver, smiling at his son in the mirror.
‘Hi, Dad,’ shouts Sebastian, striding towards the car. Opening the front passenger door, he slings his bag into the footwell and flops down onto the seat. ‘When did you get back?’
‘A couple of hours ago,’ says Oliver.
Sebastian fastens his seat belt. ‘Mum was well fed up when she found you weren’t at home. She was in a real stink, wasn’t she, Jamie?’ He half turns to his brother sitting in the back seat.
Jamie nods, glancing sheepishly at his father in the mirror.
‘Hopefully she recovered well enough for you all to have a good time in the end,’ Oliver says, turning the key in the ignition.
‘Kind of,’ says Sebastian. ‘She said if you weren’t going to be around at weekends we might as well go up to London and spend them with her.’
Looking right, Oliver pulls out into the traffic. ‘Would you want to do that?’ he asks, glancing at Sebastian.
‘I’m easy.’ Sebastian shrugs.
‘I don’t want to,’ says Jamie from the back of the car. ‘I’d rather be at home.’
‘You wuss,’ says Sebastian. ‘What’s wrong with London?’
‘You don’t have to go to London if you don’t want to, Jamie, but it might be fun,’ says Oliver, looking at Jamie in the mirror. ‘Anyway, once I’ve completed on the house in Cornwall you boys can come down with me. There will be plenty of things to do there. We can swim, fish, have barbeques on the beach and mess about in boats all day long, if we fancy it.’
‘Cool!’ says Sebastian.
‘What do you say, Jamie?’ Oliver glances in the mirror again and his heart pinches. His quiet, young son stares out of the window at the passing street. How can he help him?
Continuing to look out of the window, Jamie bites his lip and slowly nods.
Thirty-eight
‘How’s Morwenna?’ asks Cara of Tristan. ‘I haven’t heard much from her recently.’
Tristan pulls out a chair for his wife.
‘Thanks, love, my feet are killing me,’ says Jane, easing her bulky body onto the seat.
‘No one has,’ says Tristan. ‘She’s been holed up with that Tasmanian ever since he arrived in Cornwall.’
Catching the edge to his voice, Cara glances at her friend. ‘Morwenna is an adult, Trist. She can make her own decisions.’
‘I know,’ he says resignedly, ‘but I can’t help feeling responsible for her. He’s already abandoned her once. I just hope she doesn’t fall for him the way she did before.’
‘She promised to take things easy this time,’ Cara says, reassuringly.
‘When has my sister ever taken anything easy?’ Tristan says in exasperation. ‘She applies herself with passion to everything. She doesn’t know how to be any other way.’
Cara nods. ‘That’s true. But, Trist, don’t forget Tas has been away for well over a year. Returning after all this time has got to mean something. I’m sure he’s not just doing it because he’s bored and fancies a bit of a fling.’
‘Possibly. I guess time will tell. We’ll just have to mop up the pieces if it all goes pear-shaped again,’ Tristan says with a thin smile.
‘Tristan Corrington, what have you done with my positive husband?’ asks Jane. ‘Don’t be so pessimistic, love.’ Changing the subject, she turns her attention to the large canvas propped against the wall on the far side of the gallery. ‘You’ve excelled yourself here, Cara. That’s stunning!’
‘Thanks, Jane. It’s had its moments but, overall, I think it will do.’
‘Think it will do?’ Jane exclaims. ‘You’re barmy, lass! It’s unbelievably beautiful and powerful, don’t you agree, Trist?’
‘Sure do,’ Tristan says.
‘It makes a very strong statement,’ Jane adds.
‘Hopefully Greg will agree with you,’ Cara says nervously. ‘He told me that whatever I created had to be powerful and strong to draw people in.’
‘Well, he can’t complain about this,’ says Jane in awe.
Cara glances at her friend. At five months pregnant she is huge. ‘How are you, Jane?’
Jane doesn’t answer, but continues to stare at the painting with a faraway look in her eyes.
‘Jane?’
‘Sorry, what did you say? I was miles away, floating on those beautifully coloured waves and basking in the last rays of that sunset. Honestly, Cara, the colours you see in the world are just gorgeous.’
Cara smiles. ‘I asked how you were.’
‘Fine. The morning sickness was horrendous to begin with, but it’s not so bad now. I can deal with it. I just wish I wasn’t the size of a bus.’
‘You’re not having twins, are you?’
‘No. I had a scan last week,’ says Jane. ‘I know it’s hard to believe but it is just the one baby!’ She looks up at her husband. ‘In fact, we have something to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’ Cara asks, looking questioningly at her friends.
‘Go on, love.’ Jane encourages her husband.
‘We’re having a boy,’ Tristan says with pride.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’ exclaims Cara.
Tristan clears his throat. ‘We hoped you’d agree to us naming him after Christo.’
Unbidden, tears spring to Cara’s eyes and her heart squeezes painfully.
‘Oh, Cara, we didn’t mean to upset you.’ Tristan makes a move towards her, concern etched on his face.
Cara bats him away. If he holds her now she will dissolve. She must not cry.
‘You haven’t upset me, Trist. It just took me by surprise,’ she says, blinking rapidly. ‘It’s a lovely thing to ask, and I know Christo would be really chuffed.’ Through misted eyes she glances at Jane. Her face, too, is full of concern. ‘Honestly, Jane, it’s a wonderful thing to suggest. It’s a beautiful tribute to him.’ Angrily, she wipes away the traitorous tear sliding down her cheek.
‘Oh, Cara,’ says Jane, welling up.
‘Just look at the two of us!’ Cara half sobs. ‘What are we like?’
‘Smart, sensitive, emotional wrecks,’ says Tristan kindly, ‘and my two most favourite people in the world.’
As Jane chokes, Tristan bends to hug his wife.
Cara takes a deep breath. ‘This isn’t getting anything done and the courier will be here soon.’ She turns at the sound of the gallery door opening.
‘Hi.’ Removing a large rucksack from his back, the young man places it on the floor just inside the door.
Cara grins. ‘So you found your way to Cornwall, then? Congratulations!’
He smiles sheepishly.
Tristan glances enquiringly at his wife. She shrugs her shoulders.
‘Oh, let me introduce you,’ says Cara. ‘Tristan, Jane, this is Johnny, my fellow passenger across the Atlantic.’
Standing by the door, Johnny raises a hand in welcome. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘We were just about to prepare my paintings for their journey to London,’ explains Cara, ‘but would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?’
‘Tea’s great.’
‘I’ll make it,’ says Jane, heaving herself out of the chair. ‘How do you take it?’
‘White, no sugar.’ Johnny moves into the centre of the room to study the enormous canvas propped against the far wall. ‘Wow! Is this going to London?’
‘Yes,’ Cara replies, watching him examine the seascape.
‘This is awesome!’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ says Tristan, stepping forward to join them.
‘You have one helluva talent, Cara,’ Johnny says. Dragging his eyes away from the colourful, tumultuous sea, he observes her other paintings displayed on the walls. ‘Why are they going to London?’
‘An opening exhibition for a new gallery. Kaplanz.’
‘Kaplanz?’ Johnn
y says, looking directly at her. His clear brown eyes open wide.
‘Yes. Elliot and Kat. Do you know them?’
‘Not personally, but I’ve visited their gallery in New York. They’re trendsetters and anyone who’s anyone in the art world takes note of their next moves.’ He stares at Cara in awe.
Jane appears in the kitchen doorway with four steaming mugs in her hands. She takes a moment to watch the young American gazing at Cara. He looks intelligent and kind. She likes the way he wears his hair in a man bun, and those tight jeans show off his physique to perfection. It’s about time something good happened to Cara.
‘Here, let me take those,’ says Tristan, walking towards his wife.
‘This is interesting,’ she whispers, handing him a couple of mugs and nodding in Cara and Johnny’s direction.
Tristan considers his wife’s words as he distributes the mugs.
‘How did you get here?’ Cara asks Johnny.
‘Train to Penryn and then I blagged a lift from someone.’
‘Have you booked anywhere to stay?’ she asks.
‘No. Thought I’d try my luck at the local inn.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to do that, Johnny,’ says Jane, flashing him a smile. ‘You can stay in our spare room, can’t he, Trist?’
‘Well, yes. I guess so,’ says her husband in surprise.
Cara glances at her friends. It’s decent of them to offer Johnny a room but they’ve only just met him.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ Johnny says. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ says Jane firmly. ‘It’s nothing grand, but it will save you from having to splash out on a room.’
Johnny glances questioningly at Tristan.
‘Whatever the wife says…’ Tristan opens his hands in a helpless gesture, but with a smile on his face.
‘You Brits are so hospitable,’ says Johnny. ‘I’ve had nothing but good fortune since I’ve landed on your soil.’
‘Well, then, that’s settled,’ Jane says, turning away and smiling to herself.
‘OK, let’s get these babies sorted,’ says Tristan.
For the next hour they prepare the canvases for their journey to the London gallery. While Cara places sheets of acid-free tissue paper to the front of the paintings, protecting them from any moisture and dust, and wraps them in bubble wrap, Tristan and Johnny assemble the hardwood frames for the artworks. Jane sits, observing the body language and enjoying the interplay between Cara and Johnny.
‘Are you sure that’s what the instructions say?’ Cara asks Tristan.
Tristan puts down his electric screwdriver and checks the instructions the specialist fine art removers have provided. ‘Yes, that’s what it states here: “Assemble the frame by screwing the hardwood strips together to fit the perimeter of your artwork, leaving the top strip unscrewed for now. The hardwood strips should be just wide enough to accommodate the depth of your artwork, plus a sheet of bubble wrap on each side. The frame should be large enough to easily place the artwork inside it, but not so large that the artwork won’t be secure during shipment”.’
‘That’s all very well for the smaller canvases but I don’t know how we’re going to do that with the large one,’ says Cara with a frown.
Suddenly the gallery door opens. A man enters carrying a tool box and bringing with him a cool gust of wind.
‘Hello. This is becoming a bit of a habit!’ Cara says, with a laugh. ‘Bet you didn’t think you’d be seeing me again so soon.’
The man flushes crimson.
Jane stares at the newcomer with interest, noting the way he, too, looks at Cara. Approximately mid-thirties, dressed in black jeans and a sweatshirt, he wears his long mousey hair tied in a ponytail. A pen pokes out from behind one ear.
‘By its size, I guess this is it,’ the courier says, considering the large canvas propped against the wall.
‘Yes. I hope you’ve got a large van,’ Cara says.
‘I brought the Transit, as your boss instructed.’
‘Boss?’ asks Tristan.
‘Yes.’ The courier removes a notepad from the rear pocket of his jeans and flicks through the pages. ‘Mr Latimer-Jones.’
Tristan frowns. ‘Since when did he become your boss, Cara?’
‘He isn’t, Trist. A misunderstanding, that’s all,’ Cara says, surprised by the edge to her friend’s voice.
‘Better be,’ Tristan mutters under his breath.
‘Am I missing something here?’ asks the courier.
‘Nothing of consequence,’ says Cara. ‘As you see, we’ve started assembling the crates but I think we may need your expertise for the large canvas.’
Placing his tool box on the floor, the courier walks over to the various wooden crates and checks Tristan and Johnny’s efforts. ‘Yep, they look fine. I’ll just make up the large one.’ He considers Cara’s masterpiece. ‘I’ll have to build the crate around it.’
Forty minutes later, having assembled the wooden frame, the courier screws two cabinet handles to each side. ‘Makes it easier to transport,’ he explains.
‘What should we do now?’ asks Tristan.
‘Line the frame with bubble wrap,’ instructs the courier, ‘and then we’ll place the canvas inside.’
Working together, Cara and the men carefully manoeuvre the canvas into its custom-made crate.
‘Right,’ says the courier to Johnny, ‘cover it with another sheet of bubble wrap. It’s important the painting doesn’t jiggle around inside the frame.’
Johnny steps forward with a roll of bubble wrap. Once in place, he and Tristan hold up a further sheet of masonite board to the front of the frame while the courier secures it with wood glue and screws.
‘It needs to be airtight so moisture can’t get inside,’ the man explains.
Finally, Cara applies ‘FRAGILE’ tape to the precious cargo. She stands back and surveys their work. ‘OK, let’s load up. Where have you parked?’
‘Just outside the alley,’ the courier says.
Between them, they carefully transport the canvas into the courtyard, along the alleyway and out into the street. Opening the rear doors to his van, the courier jumps in and the wooden frame is guided in and strapped securely against a side rack.
Cara glances across the street. A fishing boat enters the inner harbour on an incoming tide. A small flock of seagulls swoop around following it, their raucous cries filling the air. Standing beside her, Johnny watches the vessel navigate its way through the flotilla of moored boats before neatly turning alongside the harbour wall. Agilely, one of the fishermen jumps onto the quay and secures the boat.
‘There’ll be fresh fish on the menu tonight,’ says Cara. ‘Talking of which, I promised you a pasty if you ever made it this far, didn’t I?’ She turns and smiles at Johnny.
‘The famous Cornish pasty,’ says Johnny, returning her smile.
Jumping down from the van, the courier closes the rear doors. He locks them and turns to Cara. ‘Just got some paperwork for you to sign.’
As she leads the way back to the gallery, Cara hears Tristan chatting to the man.
‘Our service is nationwide,’ the courier explains. ‘I collected a package from Mrs Penhaligon a few weeks back and I’ve made a couple of trips since to the area.’
Cara considers the man’s words. As she enters the gallery, she asks, ‘Do you ride a motorbike?’
‘No.’ The courier looks perplexed. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she says vaguely. ‘Just thought you might.’
‘Nah. Dangerous bloody things. Seen too many mates come a cropper on one of them machines.’
As Cara signs the collection note, the courier asks, ‘What’s the pub like up the road? Thought I’d grab a bite to eat before heading back.’
‘It’s good, but we’re about to have pasties. You can join us if you like,’ she says with a smile.
The man blinks in surprise. ‘Well, if you don’t mind…’
‘No, of co
urse we don’t. The more the merrier! Trist, be a darling and nip up to the bakery. There’s money in my purse.’
The courier looks dazed.
Jane swallows her smile. Dear Cara! A natural beauty, generous and free-spirited, yet totally unaware of the effect she has on these men. As her husband exits the gallery on his pasty-gathering mission, Jane watches the courier’s cheeks turn bright red and the young American once again engage Cara in easy banter.
Thirty-nine
‘For God’s sake, Dee,’ Oliver says in exasperation, ‘it’s not the end of the world.’ He stares at the striped lawns leading down to the lake.
‘So, you didn’t think it was worth bothering to be at home when I returned.’ Deanna seethes.
Oliver pinches the top of his nose. These increasing arguments are an ever-tightening noose and he’s desperate for a change of record.
‘Anyway, what came up in Cornwall that demanded your urgent attention?’ Deanna says through gritted teeth.
‘I had to sign some paperwork for the house,’ he lies.
‘And they couldn’t post it to you?’ she asks scathingly.
Oliver doesn’t respond. He watches the moorhens dabbling amongst the reeds at the edge of the lake.
Deanna, too, remains silent. As the seconds lengthen to minutes, each listens to the other’s breathing down the phone. Eventually, Oliver breaks the impasse.
‘Dee, I promise to be here next weekend.’
‘I don’t want empty promises, Oliver,’ Deanna says firmly. ‘If you say you’ll be there I expect you to stand by your word.’
‘OK, OK,’ he says, his voice strained.
Deanna controls her emotions. Why is it, these days, Oliver winds her up so easily?
‘Anyway,’ she adds, ‘it’s all gone really well for me, thanks for asking.’
‘It’s not that I’m not interested…’ Oliver says, but the sentence peters out as he runs out of steam.
‘Well, you hide your interest well,’ she says, on a roll now. ‘Pins and his friends show greater concern.’
‘Is that all you can talk about these days,’ growls Oliver, ‘Pins and his merry men?’
‘They’re great fun and give me purpose, which is more than can be said for the state of our marriage!’ The words escape from her mouth before she has a chance to stop them. Deanna holds her breath. Has she gone too far?